


Sur toutes les pages blanches

by Analinea



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A Happy Ending, AU, Ancient Greece AU, M/M, SO, Some Fluff, Some angst, Still Werewolves, maybe or maybe not creature!Stiles, probably more angst than fluff but, spot what the donkey represents, well it's me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-23 00:00:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11391126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Analinea/pseuds/Analinea
Summary: Derek travels far to find the home his family had to abandon, years ago. He finds Stiles along the way and maybe...maybe it's what he's been looking for.





	Sur toutes les pages blanches

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, title taken from a french poem I absolutely adore, translating into "On every blank page". The poem itself is called _J'écris ton nom_ and if you scroll down [here](https://www.frenchtoday.com/french-poetry-reading/french-poem-liberte-paul-eluard-audio) you can find a translation!
> 
> Second of all, and this is somewhat **IMPORTANT** : I've been slowly but steadily losing motivation to write (and read) in the Teen Wolf fandom, but I definitely want to finish my WIPs at least. So after this there's a couple more stories in store, but that also means that **I've done zero checking and corrections on this and it's most definitely full of typos**! I did rewrite it entirely so *shrug* at least it's better than version 1...  
>  Version 1, btw, is the fic I initially wrote for the summerexchange. But, um, yeah. It got too angsty. So much for my plans xD
> 
> Anyway. If you're not afraid of typos and some non-native-speaker basic mistakes, enjoy!

“Wolfman?”

Derek stirs but doesn't wake, feeling the pull of sleep on his still. The morning sun is warm on his back, the grass fresh with dew under his cheek.

He can smell the distant sea that calls to him, the one that was lost to the darkness of the night when he set up camp. This sweet salted scent that was always missing from his mother's tales and paintings.

“Hey, wolfman?” the voice repeats. It's _real_ , and Derek's instincts kick in -too late, he knows, because if this person wanted him dead they could've killed him in his sleep. He hasn't been surprised since the fire; the thought sends a chill down his spine, like he almost caused another tragedy with his carelessness.

He's up so fast that his vision whites out, but that doesn't stop him from growling and taking a defensive posture. The force of habit. When his eyes clear up, there's an unfazed man crouching right in front of him, in the middle of the olive grove overlooking the dirt path that passes for a main road.

The man raises his eyebrow comically and smiles like he's amused rather than scared -that ruffles Derek's feathers. He's wearing one of those tunics people wear in the south, loose and tied at the waist, bare thighs and arms showing. Derek vaguely registers the delicate muscles; the beauty of the stranger.

“What do you want?” Derek snaps in the same language as the man; every consonant that feels like it can't fit in his mouth is another painful reminder of all the things his mother won't get to teach him anymore.

The man chuckles, grating on Derek's already frayed nerves. “No need to be so rude, wolfman. I'm not the only one on these roads to know your kind and not everyone is as friendly as I am.” He tilts his head and makes his eyebrows jump and Derek decides that this man is ridiculous.

But he's right. Greece is still living its myths while the rest of the continent doesn't believe in them anymore, not really. It also used to be the safest land, back when hunters stayed in their own countries -Greek hunters were ruled by a goddess that protected every kind of creatures. Now, though, they don't care about borders.

Derek should know. It's twice now that his family has been chased by foreign hunters.

The man gets up, keeping a safe distance, probably more for Derek's benefit. His move is as ungraceful as it can be, and Derek knows all about lies and deceptions but somehow this clumsiness feels too genuine. Still. It doesn't mean he can't attack Derek.

“Stop calling me wolfman,” Derek says flatly. He has no thanks to offer to someone he doesn't trust, and when he gathers his few possessions he doesn't turn his back on the man. He doesn't have much: a cloak that's too hot for southern temperatures, some food, an urn as heavy as Derek's guilt.

“Well then, what's your name?”

Derek straightens and studies the stranger. He considers not answering, but something tells him it wouldn't be taken as the dismissal he would want it to be. This kind of person is as stubborn as curious, and silence or threats won't get rid of them easy. Plus, Derek figures, his name isn't a big thing to give.

“Derek.”

“ _Der-ek_ ,” the man enunciate slowly, testing the sounds. In his mouth, the _r_ and the _k_ strike so differently it could be another name entirely. It makes Derek stare a little too long at his lips. He notices how lovely they are, almost wants to see them move around his name again. “I'm Stelios.”

Now Derek stares at the extended hand, a clear gesture of peace and equality that he feels slightly guilty for not answering. The feeling surprises him; it's not like he cares about offending this intruder.

After an awkward second, Stelios takes his hand back, chuckles lightly. Derek is still looking at the now empty space between them. Then he turns and starts to walk back to the path.

“So, you're a foreigner, Der-ek,” Stelios rhetorically asks, clacking his tongue as if testing the new syllables, walking besides Derek like he belongs there.

“None of your business, _Stelios_.” With his own accent, the name sounds like _Stiles_ , and he decides out of spite that he'll keep it that way. He frowns, because it's not like he intends to say it again anyway. All he wants is to be left alone to continue his journey.

Stiles hums thoughtfully, and Derek discreetly glances in his direction. What he sees makes him stop, because suddenly through the trees there's a glistening that can only be...

That wide expense of deep blue, that rises to meet a sky almost white at the horizon. It's beautiful. It's more alive than anything Derek could've imagined, than anything his mother could've painted, and it's so far away that Derek has to ask himself if he won't die from standing too close to it because it's already taking his breath away.

“Ah,” Stiles says after following Derek's line of sight, “isn't it the most amazing view?” Derek swallows around the lump in his throat, Stiles' voice helping him find how to breathe again. “I'd say the Mediterranean is the prettiest sea in all the lands, but uh,” Stiles hesitates, “I couldn't know.” He laughs to shake off the wistfulness in his voice.

The tone strikes something in Derek; a wish to be free and an impossibility to escape. He tears his eyes away from the sea to study Stiles' back like it could give him answers. He didn't even know he had questions. He doesn't entirely understands what makes him say, “I wouldn't know, I've seen nothing but land.” It feels like he's offering some small mercy, and a part of him is relieved when Stiles turns back to him and smiles.

“Let me show you the way,” Stiles offers, and Derek is not sure what way that is but he's tempted to accept.

“No thanks,” he answers. But his feet don't move. He shouldn't want that: he's content with his solitude, he has a lot to atone for, he doesn't trust Stiles, he can only bring tragedies.

Stiles huffs out a laugh and as impossible as it seems it's like he can see right through Derek. When he starts walking again, it doesn't feel like he's giving up and leaving, but like he expect Derek to follow.

For the first time since he started this journey, Derek looks behind him. At the base of one of the tree, the grass is crumple where he slept. But when he searches for the gray of ashes he hates so much, he doesn't find it. Instead, everywhere, his eyes find wild flowers that weren't there before.

 

 _The town shines in the hard sunlight of noon, white walls cutting through the blue of the sea and the silver of the trees_.

“This town, man,” Stiles starts after ten minutes of silence. Derek stops his mental landscape writing with half annoyance, but he can't truthfully say he hates the interruption. “I love it,” Stiles finishes.

Derek glances at Stiles, perched on a tired looking donkey that almost seems blue in the right light. They've been traveling together for the best part of the day, stopping only to eat the delicious food hidden in the donkey's bags, and Stiles hasn't stopped talking. His never ending stream of words say nothing substantial, but Derek found himself liking the distraction.

So it's been quite comfortable, Derek thinks, hearing about old legends, new ridiculous stories, weird facts. He loses some words here and there but follows well enough, barely speaking more than a few words himself.

Some part of him is thinking that he'll miss this, when they have to part ways, this easy fill of a silence he really thought he preferred. He's been laughing, today.

Derek adjusts his bag on his shoulder and the potted plant in the crook of his arm, glancing at the bright orange flowers vaguely before focusing back on Stiles' words.

“It has everything you want _and_ a beach, so you'll be able to bury your grumpy toes in he sand and enjoy the sound of the waves.”

“My toes aren't grumpy,” Derek reflexively grumbles, proving Stiles point and making him laugh.

“I know a guy here,” Stiles continues, “actually I know a lot of guys here, since it's my hometown you know, but this guy is my best friend. He'll let us sleep at his.”

Derek groans noncommittally, wondering if Stiles is homeless that he needs to crash at his best friend's in his hometown, not wanting to talk about how he won't stop here and ruin the mood. There's enough daylight left that he can go on for a few more hours. “What's the name?”

Stiles hesitates a second, looking at Derek then back at the town, “Oh, you mean the town? Hum, I guess you'd call it _Beacon Hills_.” The foreign syllables fall easy on his tongue this time but it's not what makes Derek stop dead in his tracks. Stiles makes his donkey stop when he realizes Derek isn't following anymore.

“That's...,” Derek breathes out, shock making his blood sing with too many emotions. “That's where I'm going.” He almost gives in to the urge to sit down, locks his knees so they don't give up on him on the spot.

Stiles smiles and simply nods. It feels odd, like Derek was expecting more excitement from him, fist pump and hooting. But the look on his face is knowing. “Told you I could show you the way.” His voice is soft, understanding of what it's like to travel so long you're half convince your destination doesn't exist, to barely believe it when you find it as if you've missed a step thinking there were more stairs.

Unbalanced.

Derek focuses on the fact that he can stay with Stiles at least on night instead. Something eases in his chest. He almost feels at home.

 

Derek has half a second to wonder how he ended here: bag, plant and pallet barely big enough for two included. Then Stiles starts to remove his tunic.

“Uh, what?” Derek asks dumbly, and Stiles stops tugging his tunic up to turn to him.

“Oh,” he answers, “is this bothering you? I thought wolves didn't mind nudity.”

Derek bites his own tongue to stop himself from saying that it _definitely doesn't bother him at all_ , and curses the candlelight that sets quite the ambiance for a let's-share-this-bed-naked night.

It's not only that he's been attracted to Stiles all day and would love to see what's underneath his clothes, it's that for a single day of travel together he's developed a lot of feelings for the human already. He wants to sleep with him in any way, but he would also like for his feelings to be shared. For more time of building up something tangible between them.

“No, but where do I sleep?” He clears his throat but there's no way Stiles didn't notice the emotions in his voice.

Stiles looks surprised for a moment before he starts quietly laughing. “I though you understood that this is Scott's only other bed, but I guess we talked a bit too fast.” Scott, right. Derek only has a blurry recollection of the man, thought he must have seen him only a few minutes ago. “I can go sleep near the hearth if you want,” Stiles offers.

“No!” Derek quickly says, not wanting to kick Stiles out to sleep on the ground, not wanting Stiles to leave, not wanting to be alone now. As if months of solitude suddenly oppressed him.

Stiles just smiles and turns back to climb into bed, keeping his tunic. “Come on then, wolfman,” he pats the bed next to him.

Derek puts his things next to the bed, checking on his plant before lying down. They don't talk. It still takes hours for Derek to fall asleep but not because he's uncomfortable. Because the feel of Stiles warmth next to him, the sound of his breaths, Derek wants to stay awake for those. For a peace he hasn't felt since his family was still alive.

 

Derek is on a dirt path between two rows of magnificent trees swaying in the violent wind. The air is still hot on his back, the ground radiating heat he can feel through his clothes and tiny rocks bite the skin of his forearms and legs. His limbs are weak. He doesn't remember getting here.

The cruel cackling coming from a few feet away chills him to the bones despite the baking temperatures of the south. This can't be...she's supposed to be dead.

“Stay where you are,” Stiles snarls, and Derek feels safe suddenly. He's also more worried then he was when it was only his life on the line. He doesn't want Stiles to get hurt. Especially not by _her_. He doesn't want Kate to take something else from his life, as if his family wasn't enough.

Derek tries to focus his blurring eyes on what's happening in front of him, but all he can really see are the leaves, sharp green on a sky that's a shade of blue so different from the north.

“Oh, are you protecting him?” Kate taunts slowly, “How cute. Don't worry sweatheart, once I'm done with him, I'm skinning you too. Heard your kind sells like gold.”

Derek tries to growl but he fails miserably. It hits him then that he's probably been poisoned by wolfsbane. Still, the direct threat to Stiles makes him so angry that a spike of adrenaline clears his vision for a second.

Hiding Kate from view is Stiles, only wearing a loincloth. The hard lines of his shoulders show that he's ready to fight. The scars on his back show that it's not his first dance. A faraway part of Derek tells himself that he's delirious, because he's so sure he knows every mark on Stiles body, that he can recite the stories behind and still conjure the horror of being there when said stories unfolded.

Stiles has a wooden stick in his hands. Somehow Derek doesn't doubt for a second that he can hold against worse weapons with only that.

“You'll regret stepping foot in my territory, _hunter_. The gods are with me, and none of them appreciate _your_ kind,” Stiles spits, but it only makes Kate laughs. There's no winning against narcissistic perverts, though Derek's not sure how he knows those words. In a flash, he sees a tidy desk in front of him and a kind woman in strange clothes behind it. He shakes his head.

“I'm not afraid of your pathetic gods,” Kate says, pauses dramatically before adding, “I've killed some before.” And then she lunges at Stiles.

Derek can't see again, but the foggy silhouettes move too fast for this fight to be between humans. Stiles gets thrown to the ground, and Derek barely manages to whisper his name, before darkness folds in around him. He's always been so powerless to save the ones he loves.

 

“Wolfman?”

Derek stirs. The heaviness that keeps him from waking up is painfully familiar: it's not his first close encounter with wolfsbane. Still, he knows he's free from it and the late afternoon sun isn't as scathing, grass fresh under his back.

“Hey, Derek! Wake up already!”

That makes Derek sit up abruptly, ignoring the sudden dizziness to looks around for any sign of Kate. He finds Stiles and a deep sense of relief instead, so he lets himself be laid back down.

“Where? How long?” Derek croaks out, prompting Stiles to help him drink from a goatskin.

“The evil bitch won't ever bother you again,” Stiles smiles satisfactorily, “I sent her to the deepest pit of Hell. I'm sure she'll find the company very enjoyable.” His tone is viciously vindictive and Derek shouldn't find that attractive but damn, he does.

“Okay,” he simply breathes out, studying Stiles' face with an intensity that makes Stiles freeze and look back at him in soft wonder.

Stiles coughs, and averts his gaze, “I brought you here, I was worried even my water wouldn't cure you. You've been out for more than half a day.”

Derek doesn't know what to say to that, or to Stiles avoidance of Derek's clear feelings. “Sorry?” he tries, and to his surprise it makes Stiles laughs. He's glad.

“Not your fault,” Stiles chuckles, then sobers up. “When you get to the bottom of things, it's mine, really.” He looks so desperate in that moment that Derek starts to raise his hand to try and erase the sadness from Stiles' face, because it doesn't belong there. It shouldn't. But Stiles beats him to it and lights up again to say, “You home, Derek! Really home.”

Derek startles at that and sits up, this time managing to stay upright. He looks around.

He's in a clearing, shaded enough from the sun that the grass stayed mostly alive. Derek is sitting in one of the greenest patches, a tiny, silent stream of water running through it and explaining the healthiness off it.

The sun coming through the leaves in moving patches illuminates colorful wild flowers and the white stones of an old, crumbled fountain. It gives a nostalgic air to the place, having this beauty of old places full of a history you'll never know anything about. Peaceful and quiet and softly painful.

Derek turns and behind him is a massive house painted a now faded blue that contrast sharply with the nature around. Derek knows this house from paintings, from his mother's words. _We'd just painted it clean, and your grandmother was furious about the color. She hated it. We had to run before my father had time to buy new paint._

Derek lets out a breath. The very air here _is_ magic. An ache in Derek's bones that he never noticed was there fades. He belongs here.

He's home.

 

“How did you know?” Derek asks, wiping the tears from his cheek. He pats the freshly turned soil around his little plant. He's still not sure where it came from, but he has a suspicions it has something to do with Stiles. It will grow from the ashes of his family that he brought back to their rightful land, and if that's not symbolic he doesn't know what is.

“About what?” Stiles asks when Derek stands up. It feels right to be next to him.

“About here being home.”

“Ah,” Stiles smiles and turns to face the house, eyes lost on the ruins of the fountain. “I haven't been completely honest with you,” he whispers, not hesitating but still the way his voice shakes slightly speaks of a fear to be rejected by Derek because of the confession. Derek says nothing, just waits.

“You can't really see it,” Stiles continues, “but there's a source right here, underground. The tiny stream comes from it actually.” He pauses for long seconds. “I'm its spirit,” he turns to look at Derek, appraising his reaction. When he finds only quiet surprise, he keeps going. “I've been attached for this land for centuries, before your family even came here.”

“Centuries?” Derek, mind reeling, asks when Stiles trails off and seems too lost in thoughts. Stiles glances at him with an apologetic smile.

“Yeah. I don't remember, not really. Years fold on themselves until all that stays are the most remarkable events. Believe it or not, there's not much of those here,” he quietly laughs. But then he gets sad again and Derek wishes he could fight whatever is causing it. But memories from years long gone aren't something you can fight with you fists, Derek knows. He tried.

“I've protected the Hale land before they settled here, and I've given my protection to the bloodline since they prayed for it.”

Derek knows, then, where this is going. He's too familiar with guilt, can feel it in his every waking moments, even when he's not actively noticing it. It's there in his guts and heart, in his bones, in the ache in his fingers. Stiles studies him again, waiting for a judgment that Derek can't ever pass.

“I didn't–”

Bu Derek interrupts him, says, “They all died in a fire because of me. If you failed them, I failed them worse, because at least they left this place alive.” He's breathless by the end of it. He's never said it out loud. That they're dead.

“Derek, no–”

But Derek doesn't want to have this conversation, not now. He's not ready yet. Months of travel weren't enough to be ready because they were limbo. This is real. Stiles nods.

“Will you stay?” Stiles asks instead, hope in his eyes. “I'm tied to this land and–” he stops himself and Derek understands he's trying to be merciful. Stiles never saw the world because he has to stay here, and he doesn't want Derek to be imprisoned in the same way, feeling like he has to stay for Stiles.

There's a silence, Derek searching for the right words.

“This _is_ home,” he finally says, “but I'll set you free,” he adds. When Stiles jerks in surprise, eyes widening, Derek continues, “I want to rest, and then I want to go with you. To see if the Mediterranean truly is the prettiest sea in all the lands. And then, when we've seen all there is to see, we can come back here.”

Stiles smiles blooms slowly on his face but it's the most genuinely happy one Derek's seen so far. “I'd be honored to,” Stiles breathes out, tears welling up in his eyes.

 

“Wolfman?”

Derek is pretty sure the voice isn't real. The ache in his back is, though, from the way he fell asleep on his desk.

“Derek?” the same voice asks quietly, but this time it's _here_ and makes Derek sit up abruptly. “Stiles?” he asks, blinking around until his sleepy eyes spot him.

“Wow, sleepy head, how many times have I told you not to fall asleep working? You'll ruin your old bones. I swear it's the same thing every time I have a conference.”

“My bones aren't old,” Derek grumbles before it hits him that Stiles has been gone for work for two weeks. He leaps up, making his stack of paper fall everywhere, and engulf Stiles in a bear hug.

“Easy there,” Stiles laughs, “you're going to crush _my_ old bones.”

“You're not even twenty-five yet,” Derek groans. This particular dialogue is overly familiar.

“Missed you too, grumpy,” Stiles pats Derek's arm. It takes another few minutes for Derek to un-bury his face from Stiles' neck, putting enough distance between them that he can lean into a kiss that leaves them both breathless.

“I had the weirdest dream,” Derek suddenly remembers.

“Yeah? What about?” Stiles asks, walking backwards without letting go of Derek, until they're falling in the couch.

Derek thinks about his next novel, the one he's been trying to find a decent plot for for months, ever since they announced it would be a spin-off of his series. His series that takes place in ancient Greece. With a secondary character that is not so loosely based on Stiles that the readers loved so much they've been signing up ten different petitions for said spin-off to happen.

Derek didn't take very well to peer-pressure, but he had already been thinking about it, so it'd been bound to happen, fan harassment or not.

“About my next book,” he finally says.

“Oh...,” Stiles drawls excitedly. “What happened?”

“Um...,” Derek tries to remember it more clearly, but carefully so it doesn't slip into oblivion. “I think...you were a spirit? And there was this very beautiful house? And um...a plant. Definitely.”

Stiles hums, narrowing his eyes and pinching is lips. Derek can't tell if Stiles is trying not to laugh or if he's seriously analyzing the little Derek gives him.

Derek looks at him. Really looks at him. His bright eyes, and the mess of his hair after a long travel. The circles under his eyes and the moles, the way he lets himself relax when he's in Derek's arms.

“Move in with me,” Derek blurts out. Stiles continues nodding for a second before he blinks and his head rears back in shock.

“Wh– Derek, are you– seriously?” he frantically asks, gripping Derek's arms tight without noticing it. Derek smiles. He thinks back on the last words he said in his dream. It's the clearest part. This is home. But in the dream, home hadn't been the family house, full of ghosts of a life Derek never knew. It'd been Stiles all along. The feeling of home. The full realization the Derek loved him. Loves him.

“Move in with me,” he repeats.

Stiles blinks several more time before he bounces once on the couch, yelling, “Oh my god yes, Derek!” And then they kiss again, hot and passionate.

Derek's heart fills to the brim with feelings warm and bright. With Stiles here. He's home.

 

“I'm not sure about the plant,” he says later, looking at the ceiling, Stiles' head on his shoulder, hand caressing the human's arm. “It feels like a symbol for something.”

There's a silence.

“What are you doing...Stiles, what– oh, no, Stiles, you're not– you're not texting Erica about the plant. Stiles! The plant wasn't the Pack, Stiles! Give me this phone! Now!”

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you've come this far, why not leave a comment? :D I'll love you forever! <3 (you can tell me if the last three lines are as cringy as I think they are xD)
> 
> Stay tuned for a creature!Stiles fic next!


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